


I wish My Lie Was True

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: 7.25 tag of sorts, Angst, Danny caring for sick Steve, Danny will care for Steve whether he wants to or not, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non sexual daddy kink without age play, Physical Weakness, Sickfic, Steve McGarrett needs a minder, Steve's just had enough of this, WIP, Work In Progress, emotional distress, radiation poisoning, vomit tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: He has to be Steve McGarrett, the hero, the Navy SEAL, the indestructible man. That’s the only thing he knows how to be.Except...He’s not that man anymore. His body isn’t that man’s anymore, even if his mind is. And the whole shtick about pain being just a state of mind? Doesn’t work so well after being shot up by a .50 cal and having a vital organ ripped to shreds, removed and replaced by someone else’s and being zapped by radiation barely eight months later when you took six weeks to convalesce when you should have taken six months.So, right now, he doesn’t know how to be who he is, who he's supposed to be. He doesn’t really know who or what he is anymore, but one thing’s for damn sure, he’s completely, totally wrung out, physically, mentally, emotionally, which is why he’s still crying into his pillow, like he hasn’t done since he was a little kid, while Danny rubs his back and sings him a fucking lullaby.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> A few days ago, I received an ask on my Tumblr, saying I was missed on AO3, and I responded by first saying WHAO!! cool people miss me! It felt really good, and then I asked if I should throw some WIPs out there, which is something I usually don't do.
> 
> The answer was yes, so here you go!
> 
> This is my bread and butter, ie I adore making Steve sick, vulnerable and weak. So I did. This is a coda to 7.25 in which Steve takes a turn for the worst, and Danny, of course, comes to the rescue.
> 
> It also explores the somewhat paternal attitude Danny has towards Steve, in the non sexual daddy Kink without age play manner.
> 
> There are a couple brilliant metas on Tumblr on this subject, but I SUCK at links. 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this unfinished story. I plan on finishing it but the how it will progress escapes me for now...

"I'm not scared of anything" (I wish my lie was true)

 _"I'm not scared of anything!_  
_I wish my lie was true._  
_I don't want help,_  
_I don't need anything from you!"_

 _I wish my lie was true_  
  
_Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/i-hate-to-cry_  
_Poem by Elizabeth McCrorie_

 

* * *

 

 

Jerry’s party is in full swing when Steve walks out of the kitchen with a glass of ice water, because that’s what Danny gave him and if he’s honest, it’s probably a good choice. He still feels a little queasy, even after taking the anti-nausea meds the doc prescribed.

He doesn’t know if it’s because he overexerted himself during the day, with that jumping onto the truck stunt thing, or if it’s because he drank a bit more than usual (like two beers is a lot, now), or because of the new meds (god damn it, Prussian blue is awful to swallow and it really does taste like paint) but whatever it is, the nausea gets bad enough that he has to disappear into the bathroom three more times after his confession to Danny.

Thankfully, he doesn’t actually throw up, but only because he fights it like hell.

Instead, he spends long minutes leaning over the sink, drooling and spitting, sweating through his t-shirt, while Danny waits on the other side of the door, because of course, now, Danny won’t take his eyes off him for more that fifteen seconds.

He keeps a hand clutched over his temperamental stomach, as if he can soothe it from the outside, buy its cooperation if he can’t will it into submission.

The washcloth he keeps close by, wet with cold water, helps when he puts it on the back of his neck.

“You sure you’re okay?” Danny asks when he exits the bathroom after the latest close call. Steve knows he looks pale, paler than he did a couple hours ago. He can feel the clamminess of his own skin, feel the cold, nausea-induced sweat stick to his neck and chest, slip down his spine.

He sighs as he leans against the wall, dizzier and more tired than he’s felt in days. The party’s still going and he’s glad, he is, but right this moment, he just wants to go to bed, lie down and sleep for a thousand years, wants to give in to the utter wretchedness he's feeling.

“Yeah, yeah," he answers. "Doc said the meds might...” he pauses to swallow carefully, almost rushing back into the bathroom when the nausea flashes through him like a bolt of lightning. “He said the meds might make the nausea a little worse for the first couple days.”

“Babe, nobody would be mad if we cut this a bit short if they found out you were sick and why,” Danny says, putting a hand on his arm.

Right as he’s about to answer, he’s hit with another, much stronger wave of nausea and dizziness. The room blurs and tilt around him and for a terrifying second, he’s certain he’s going to puke or maybe pass out, or maybe both.

He must make a noise, or Danny must see something on his face because he miraculously doesn’t fall over from the dizziness but everything shifts and moves nonetheless. It’s both good and bad.

It’s bad because it finally tips the nausea over the edge into puking territory but good because somehow Danny gets him into the bathroom and to the toilet right as it does.

He should be mortified and humiliated, but his world has been reduced to his war waging stomach voiding its content and the desperate and opposed need to breathe. The pain in his head, of his knees landing brutally hard on the tile, the touch of hands on his face, on his neck, elsewhere, all those sensations are distant flickers on the edges of his awareness.

When it stops, everything hurts and there's the taste of vomit and blood in his mouth. He feels his body grow heavy, feels it slowly slide down, down, down, till there are hands all over him again, when what he expected was the hardness of the floor.

“Hey, hey! No, no, no, don’t you pass out on me!” Danny’s voice. It's close. He sounds worried. “Steve! Steven! Answer me!”

“M... M’hm,” he mumbles. He wants to sleep. He’s so... so tired.

“C’mon, babe... Steve! Hey! Words, I need words. We need to get you to a hospital?”

He shakes his head, rolls it on his shoulders, more like, but he can’t force his eyes to open. “S.. Sleep. Js.... Need... t’sleep. M’fine.”

“Right. Fine my ass. Okay. Okay, guys, help me get him to bed.”

Things get fuzzy after that. He’s aware of moving, hands all over but it’s too distant, too... disconnected. He loses the plot completely, feels like he’s falling... up instead of down, spinning, spinning until he’s lying on something soft, warm, familiar.

"Sleep, babe. I'm right here."

He sleeps.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up in stages, each more unpleasant than the one before.

His head aches in a horrible, pounding way that tells him not to open his eyes but he has to; he has to open his eyes because he has to get up.

That is a bad idea in itself because the world is already spinning even if he’s lying still, but he _has to._ He has to get up because he has to get to the closest toilet and fast because the alternative is upchucking on his…

Bed? What-- Last thing he remembers is talking with Danny in the hall by the downstairs half-bath but that’s not-- his innards buck and twist hard and fuck it’s too--

Someone sticks something between him and the bed just as vomit erupts from his mouth in a torrent of acidic, bitter sludge. He chokes on it a little, coughing and gasping, eyes watering.

He blinks the tears out of his eyes and stares at the mess swirling in a plastic bowl, inches from his face. Before he can even restart his thought process, his stomach clenches harshly and it’s round two, more violent and more painful, some of the scorching fluid going up his nose, burning his sinuses.

He coughs on the vile remnants stuck in his throat, long viscous strands of it clinging to his lower lip, nose and chin. He spits, pants and groans pitifully, his head spinning.

The sensation of vertigo is like wind on embers and the nausea crests like a building wave.

He retches dry with a harsh, hacking cough.

“Can you hold it?”

“Wh…What?” he croaks between miserable, queasy groans.

Someone, Danny, is moving him, sitting him up, something firm against his back, pressing a thing into his hands. Everything is still spinning and tilting dizzyingly, making him want to throw up again.

He hiccups and belches, gross and wet. A mouthful of watery vomit splashes up into his mouth and he spits it out, vainly trying to get the horrid taste out of his mouth.

“Hold the bowl, McGarrett, I don’t think you’re finished.”

Something touches his hand again and he grabs on to it for dear life. He recognizes the object as the big, white plastic bowl he uses to store leftover salad but at the moment, there's a mess of soupy vomit sloshing inside. Okay. Never again will that thing get used, he somehow manages to think between waves of nausea.

He jerks forward and heaves hard, his gut caving in deep and hard. A thick gush of bilious vomit splatters violently into the bowl, some going up his nose again, the force of it sending the mess over the sides of the bowl, onto his chest, onto his lap, the bedding. The contraction seems to not want to end, his stomach seemingly intent on turning itself inside out. When it finally unclenches, he sucks in a greedy, desperate gasp of air and coughs on the slime still caught in his throat, blinking fat tears of effort out of his eyes.

He doesn’t understand what the hell is happening.

He knows he’s in his bedroom, Danny crouched by his side but with no clear memory of how he got here.

He feels absolutely, wretchedly awful. The nausea surges up again and he feels faint, almost like he’s going to pass out.

“Danny,” he pants out, a plea almost. He retches dry with a deep, pained groan and another disgustingly wet belch, vomit dripping from his nose and lip. He coughs hard, the hack turning into a retch.

“Yeah. I’m here. S’okay. I’m here. You hear me?”

He doesn’t answer, just shakes his head and curls over the bowl. He retches forcefully, a gut-deep effort that _hurts_. A glob of bile burns up his throat, oozes over his tongue and splatters into the bowl.

He retches again but this time, nothing comes up, save some watery drool and another pained groan.

His stomach seems to be emptied after that, simmering down a bit.

He lifts his head up and lets it hit the headboard, closing his eyes, panting hard, eyes streaming tears, nose dripping snot and vomit, lips and chin covered in drool and more puke.

The bowl lifts from his lap and a bottle of water is pressed into his hand instead. He feels Danny move away, his steps fading, until he hears the toilet flushing in his master bathroom, a few seconds later.

He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a sip, sloshing the water around his teeth before swallowing. The nasty taste in his mouth is still there, so he takes another sip, swallowing carefully. He hiccups.

Something bubbles in his throat and he can’t hold back a hard belch. With it come the two sips of water he just drank. He jerks forward and slams his hand over his mouth but most of it seeps between his fingers down his chin and onto his shirt.

“Ff... fuck.” He closes his eyes, swallows the sour remnants and tries to hold back on the urge to throw up again.

He hears footsteps getting closer and the bowl gets deposited back in his lap. Something cold and wet pushes at his hand. He opens his eyes.  Danny's waiting, offering him a damp washcloth, a kind look on his face.

“Ah shit. You need a clean shirt, now huh? Not that you didn’t need one already but...”

Clean shirt, clean sweats, clean bed linens, he doesn’t say. He can feel the heavy, disgustingly warm wetness of his spilled stomach contents on his clothes and on the covers. He grabs the washcloth Danny’s offering, wipes his face and blows his nose with it, drops it to the floor and closes his eyes again.

After a minute, he blindly reaches for the bottle of water and takes a sip, lets it settle for a few seconds. He takes another sip, and another. The room’s still spinning and he has trouble finding something to focus on in the dimly lit room so he keeps his eyes closed. 

Danny’s still talking but he can’t concentrate on what he’s saying.

He groans as a sharp lance of pain sears through his head, the room swimming more and more around him even with his eyes shut. He opens his eyes and lifts his head from the headboard, nausea surging though him like a tsunami.

He needs to... get up. Get to the... Fuck... he’g gonna puke again.

“M’ gn’a throw up ‘gain,” he mutters, fighting to rise off the bed.

“Okay, no, no, stay there. I gotcha. Okay, careful,” Danny says, bracing him so he doesn’t fall off the bed as he lists to the side, too woozy to compensate on his own. The plastic bowl appears in his lap again, just in time.

His stomach gurgles and jerks as he drops his head forward over the bowl. Nothing comes up but a sour belch and the spit in his mouth. He drools over the empty plastic, saliva dripping out of his mouth thick and fast. His stomach gives another shudder and he feels the deep wrenching spasm coming, from the very depths of his guts. The water he just drank and a few mouthfuls of bile come up in a gush. After that, it’s just more belches, spit and dry heaves but the useless, _painful_ efforts last for long, endless minutes.

God, what the hell is happening to him? The meds were supposed to _help._

He hates throwing up, so, so much. Hates how helpless it makes him, how it forces him to surrender control of his body. How it takes the decision away from him. He doesn’t decide; his body does. The only thing he can do is surrender to it.

And he hates it.

He spits mouthful after mouthful of drool into the bowl, shaking and panting, drenched in clammy sweat, trying to catch his breath while his stomach quivers and whines, undecided as if the rebelling is over.

It’s not.

It clenches hard and he belches emptily over the bowl again.

He groans, spits out what clings to his tongue and lip. “Wh’s happning t’me?” he pants out, trying to quell his raging innards, to no avail.

“Noleani agreed with what your doc said, like what you told me? About the meds maybe making the nausea worse? Noelani said Prussian blue puts a strain on the liver and that you might have a tough time the first couple days. She said it would feel like a hell of a hangover. This is just it. You’re okay. I swear. Just... bad few hours.”

Another bad few hours. Danny talked about this to Noelani? When? Again, his thoughts are derailed by the sharp pain in his stomach and its renewed upheaval.

He coughs, dry heaves roughly over the bowl. “S... Sucks.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m sorry, babe _,_ ” Danny says softly. “I know, sport, I know.”

Sport. That’s what Danny calls his son. That’s how Danny talks to Charlie when he’s sick or tired or sad… when he’s… Caring for him.

That’s when he notices it. The hand, rubbing circles on his back, up his neck, the cool cloth wiping his sweaty forehead. The soft, soft lullaby Danny’s singing under his breath. It sounds... Foreign, a language he doesn’t understand.

Danny’s… caring for him. Taking care of him.

He blinks more tears out of his eyes, and suffers through another awful spasm in his stomach, tearing a groan from his throat with the horrendously sour bursts of gas he keeps belching up, eyes streaming tears of effort.

“C’mon, c’mon. Stop it. You gotta relax. Relax, babe, please. Breathe in through you nose, slowly, that’s it,” Danny coaxes, “Come on. Take a breath. Through your nose, Easy, slow. Come on. You can do it. Just breathe.”

He forces himself to swallow and close his mouth, makes himself inhale through his nose.

“Yeah, that’s it. Slow. Easy. Exhale, out your mouth. Good. Again.”

He inhales through his nose, his breath still uneven and harsh but he can feel the muscles in his abdomen relaxing a bit. He swallows.

Breathes, trying to ignore the foul taste in his mouth and the burning in his throat and nose. God, he still feels so, so wretchedly awful.

He breathes. Follows the rhythm of Danny’s hand on his back. Over again and again.

His stomach slowly starts to uncoil, and the nausea finally, _finally_ recedes.

He sags against the headboard, his eyes falling shut against his will and he feels Danny’s warmth press against him. The bowl is lifted from his lap and the damp washcloth swipes his face, gentle and easy.

He’s exhausted. His stomach and abdominal muscles _hurt_ from the strain and his throat is burning fiercely. He’d love nothing more than to rinse out his mouth and brush his teeth because he can still taste the grossness and he has bits stuck in his teeth, but the room feels like it’s still spinning and he doesn’t have nearly enough energy to stand.

Danny’s mumbling things under his breath again, things he can’t grasp, but they sound comforting and soft.

For once, just once, he lets himself drift, lets it go. He’ll apologize tomorrow.

“Can you lift your arms, babe? _”_

Steve forces his lids apart and finds Danny’s face, looks at him. “What’s… that you keep… Singing?”

Danny shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It... slips out. It’s Hebrew. Tends to happen when I take care of m... Of someone who’s ill. Old lullaby I picked up from my Grandma Williams. She was Jewish, spoke more Hebrew and Yiddish than anything else. It’s about a cute little duck, but don't let it go to your head.”

“M' not cute, m' covered w' puke,” he mumbles, closing his eyes again.

“Hey, no. No, no. You gotta change your shirt. You can’t sleep in that shirt. There’s all sorts of nastiness on that shirt, which you know. What, I tell you you’re like a cute little duck and you act like a shmuck? Not like I'm shocked, I tell you! No, lift your arms up. When you have clean pj’s on and the bed's clean, you can sleep. Oi! Come on!”

He draws in a breath and sits up, lifts his arms and lets Danny fuss, lets him help change out of his soiled tee and pyjama pants, lets him get rid of the vomit-stained comforter and sheets, even lets him change the pillowcases for fresh ones.

Steve lets Danny do it all.

Because Danny fussing over him feels... good, nice, even, better than what his body feels like, better than the nastiness swirling in his head.

Danny helps him settle down into the clean, fresh bed, drapes the covers over him, like he's seen him do dozens of times with Charlie.

Steve isn't a little kid but...

He closes his eyes, starts to drift, trying not to think about how this whole Danny taking care of him is making him feel, deep inside.

“You need to rehydrate," Danny says, a soft hand on his arm.

“I just... wanna sleep.... lemme sleep. _Please,_ ” he begs, his voice broken and thin, his muscles aching and stiff. He shivers, pain lancing through his back, arms and legs. he swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes itching. He's so tired of hurting... he just wants to _rest_.

God, he is so _fucking tired._

“No. You need to drink something. Just a little. Come on, babe, please. Please.”

Danny insists, resolute and kind but unyielding till he gets him to swallow a bit of flat ginger ale, not water because flat ginger ale is better, will help with the nausea. And when Steve finally relents and drinks the stuff, Danny mumbles something in what he now knows is Yiddish, that sounds suspiciously like praise. Or Maybe Danny’s just glad he’s listening for once.

Thing is, Danny’s right. He feels a little better after swallowing a bit of the flat ginger ale. So, he drinks a bit more in little, measured sips, till the glass is empty.

“There. Feel better, huh?” Danny says, and there’s no mistaking the mother-henning tone in his voice but somehow, he doesn’t mind because... because... Because it’s... nice to be cared for when you don’t feel good.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Danny ruffling his hair and pulling the covers over him when he lies down again _must_ be an unconscious gesture. It’s comforting, extremely father-like.

He doesn’t know if the thought of fatherhood, invariably linked to his dad and that jagged hole in his heart where that memory lives is why there’s a sudden deep, _deep_ burst of longing in his soul, why it brings the sting of tears to his eyes.

He _misses_ being cared for _so damn much._

He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing hard, willing the tears away but they fill his eyes anyway.

“Sleep, okay? Just sleep.”

He nods against his pillow, his tears soaking into the fabric, hidden by the dark.

There’s another soft, quiet, whispered lullaby, wrapping around him, lulling him to sleep. He feels Danny stroke his hair again, his neck, as more tears seep into his pillow. He’s so horribly ashamed when he sniffles, because now, Danny _knows;_ he knows Steve’s crying.

“Shhh. It’s okay. S’okay. You’ll be all right.”

He doesn’t know who Danny’s saying it for most; for Steve’s own sake or for himself.

Steve doesn’t really care, because there’s so much conviction in those softly spoken words that he believes them.

Now that Danny’s aware he’s crying, there’s no use in holding back, no need to pretend so he lets the tears have free reign. He doesn’t even really know _why_ he’s crying. He just... He’s so damn tired and he hurts and he feels like crap and he’s been feeling like crap for most of a _year,_ since the plane and getting shot and the transplant and yeah, he’s pushed through but...

If he’s honest? Truly, brutally honest? He hasn’t felt like himself for a single _day_ since those three bullets tore through his body and he’s had enough. He’s sick and tired of being sick and tired, of pretending to be okay, of acting like he’s fine, like he’s his good ol’ self.

He does it because that’s what he’s supposed to do, that’s what’s expected of him.

Because that's what is, isn’t it?

He _has_ to be Steve McGarrett, the hero, the Navy SEAL, the indestructible man.

That’s the only thing he knows how to be.

Except...

Except.

He’s not that man anymore. His body isn’t that man’s anymore, even if his mind is. And the whole shtick about pain being just a state of mind? Doesn’t work so well after being shot up by a .50 cal and having a vital organ ripped to shreds, removed and replaced by someone else’s and being zapped by radiation barely eight months later when you took six weeks to convalesce when you should have taken six _months._

So, right now, he doesn’t know how to be who he is, who he's supposed to be. He doesn’t really know _who or what_ he is anymore, but one thing’s for damn sure, he’s completely, totally wrung out, physically, mentally, emotionally, which is why he’s still crying into his pillow, like he hasn’t done since he was a little kid, while Danny rubs his back and sings him a fucking lullaby.

But... The hell of it is, it helps.

Having someone there, someone who cares and doesn’t judge, doesn’t see him as weak but as human instead... it fucking helps.

“Thank you,” he hiccups, between sniffles and half-swallowed sobs.

“Any time. Any time you need me, I’m there.”

“I know.”

“S’okay, babe. Shhh. Deep breaths now, okay? You need to get some rest. Sleep. Okay? Can you take a slow, deep breath for me? You need to go to sleep now, okay? Come on, now. Deep breath. Easy, slow down.”

Steve does, lets Danny coach him through the tears, calm him down.

The hand stroking his back never stops, and neither do the soft words, spoken or sang softly.

He closes his eyes, lets sleep come, lets himself be comforted into it.

 

* * *

 

 

_Darkness._

_At first, it's the only thing he can sense, but the dark is filled with glints of blades, muzzle flashes, screams of agony and terror. Phantom faces of tortured corpses and mass graves superimpose themselves over ghosts of long dead enemies and his heart pounds within his chest._

_The noise fills his head, screams of the dead and dying, explosions, sand in his mouth, blood running down his face, something heavy on his back, pressing him down into the dirt._

He half-wakes from the nightmare, enough to realise he's dreaming, too caught up in the clutches of it to escape. He twists his body under the covers, tries to breathe, his mind still more asleep than awake, still flooded with disconnected fragments of images and sensations that make no sense but are filled with terror and violence.

 _Just a nightmare_ , he tries to tell himself, unable to pull himself fully out of it, his mind falling back into sleep. He tries to hold on to the thought but it slips away like sand between his fingers.

He freefalls, the nightmare swallowing him again in an instant.

_Chains._

_A dark, damp concrete box.  Humid.  Hot._

_"Shelburne. Tell me about Shelburne."_

_"I'm not your brother!"_

_Water, on the grimy floor. A rusted bucket._

_"I need to be convinced."_

_"It wasn't for nothing..."_

_Pain, in his neck. Brutal. Burning._

He gasps, opens his eyes. There's nothing but the murky dark, like the ocean caught in a fog, like he can barely get his head above water to pull in a desperate breath.

 _Just a nightmare. Let it go_.

He sinks under the surface again, the black water closing over him.

_Wet cloth on his face, soaked, water flooding his nose, filling his throat, choking him._

_His lungs burn, inside and out._

_Electricity sizzles through his nerves, the stench of his own burned flesh making him want to throw up._

_"My brother's dead, isn't he? Isn't he! Then so's your father!"_

BANG!

He gasps awake, shakes his head but he's mired in the fragments of the dream again, unable to completely pull himself out, caught in the frigid waters of his subconscious. His body feels heavy, tired. He can't find the strength to fight the downward pull of the black water.

_Just nightmares. Just damn nightmares. Let go. Just.... let them go._

He doesn't know if he's still dreaming or not but everything around him is swirling and twisting, like he's caught in a maelstrom. It swallows him whole and he sinks back into dark, glacial waters.

_Broken, twisted bones in a hole of mud and an overwhelming sense of loss submerge him and he feels like he's drowning. Shriveled skin with a faded, misshapen heart, the word Kelly half-erased by decay, torn by ragged edges of shattered bone._

_"You left me here alone," he hears, whispered in his ear._

_Freddie. Freddie, no!_

_"Everyone leaves you like you left me. To die alone."_

_"Even your own mother faked her death to get away from you!" someone shouts behind him._

_He whirls around and Danny's there, his face twisted in a mask of disgust, harsh, cruel laughter echoing in the darkness around them._

_Before he can say anything, his body seizes, the brutal shock of electricity cursing through his muscles._

_Wo Fat's face hovers, millimeters from his, leering at him, eyes black like tar, face half-melted._

_"I need to be convinced," he hisses, and he shoves the cattle prod into Steve's chest, just to the side of his ribs, right where the bullet scar is._

_It burns and burns and burns but it's wrong. It's the wrong pain, not like the shock he expected. It hurts so much more. Steve howls in agony as he burns and he turns his head to look, trying to understand. His eyes find the stick in Wo Fat's hand and it's not the cattle prod. Instead, it's a bundle of dull, gray rods held together in a metal casing._

_Uranium rods, melting his flesh._

_The horizon flares to a blinding white and a giant, mushroom-shaped cloud rises in the burning blazing sky._

_The fire spreads from his side, engulfs his chest, swallows him whole._

He screams.

This time, it's enough to finally jolt him completely out of sleep and out of the seemingly never-ending round of nightmares.

He wakes violently, sitting up abruptly and tossing aside the covers, the echoes of the scream in his head, throat tight, chest burning, shaking and drenched in sweat.

He pants harshly, one hand going to press up against his hammering heart, where his chest still feels like it's on fire.

The burning is very real but it has nothing to do with the uranium from the dream and everything to do with its side effects. His oesophagus and throat are still scorched raw by all the acids and bile he's thrown up earlier, his stomach still upset, churning and sour.

His whole body aches as he shivers with chills, the sweat drenching him cooling in the night air. He closes his eyes tightly and pulls in a shuddering breath, drawing his knees up and burying his head in his hands.

 He tries to slow his breathing, swallowing back the acid flooding up his throat, his innards churning and unsettled. His head aches horribly and his ears are still ringing with echoes of the dream.

He shivers more violently, teeth chattering but it’s not just the nightmares. He must have spiked a fever; it's another joyful part of radiation poisoning.

His stomach growls and he isn’t sure if it’s with nausea or hunger. Everything he’s eaten in the past four days has ended up undigested in a toilet, behind a convenient bush or in a back alley somewhere. He feels weak, tired, exhausted to a point he’s never felt before, even through BUD/s or even SERE, where the point is to exhaust you to the point of giving up, giving in, to the point of breaking.

The problem is... this thing... is not going away. It’ll improve for a while, maybe a few years if he’s lucky but he knows the statistics. Every operator knows the ins and outs of radiation sickness. They teach you about it at the same time they teach you about tactical nuclear weapons, about Plutonium and enriched Uranium and Cesium and all that good stuff.

So he knows he’ll be okay for a while, but he also knows he won’t be for long. He’ll get thyroid cancer sooner or later, and sooner or later his kidneys will give out from the transplant drugs and...

He’ll fight. He will, that’s what he does but... he’s used to fighting tangible enemies. Not... not the enemy within. Not his own body.

Right now, he’d settle for not feeling like shit for five minutes.

He sits up and draws his knees up before burying his head in his hands, curling forward until his elbows rest on his knees. The position puts pressure on his sore stomach and he doesn’t bother holding back a groan of pain.

He scoots back until he’s sitting up against the headboard and lets his legs stretch, relieving the pressure on his belly but he keeps his hands over his face. He scrubs them hard over his cheeks, his eyes, through his head before lacing his fingers behind his neck.

His phone buzzes on his nightstand with a text message alert and he picks it up by reflex, but the distraction from his physical misery and dark, circling thoughts is welcome. The text is from Danny.

_* You’re gonna hear noises coming from the guest room in a second. Don’t shoot me and don’t come in here pointing your gun at Charlie and don’t murder me when I open the door and come into your room, kay?*_

Danny’s still here? With Charlie?

Sure enough, he hears the floorboards creak across the hall and footsteps on the landing. He can already tell it _is_ Danny, just by those same footsteps.

The doorknob on his bedroom door turns slowly and the door swings open slowly, Danny coming into view. He’s bare chested, in his boxers, hair dishevelled but he doesn’t exactly look like he was asleep.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, as he steps into the room. “You okay? I heard you shouting. Nightmare?”

Steve sighs and nods. They’ve spent enough nights in each other’s company to know a lot about each other’s demons, and there’s no use in lying about it.

“Night _mares_ , plural. Y’know when you know you’re dreaming but... you can’t really wake up?” he rasps, his voice scratchy and rough. He coughs, wincing at the ache it produces in his muscles, his throat, his head.

“Yeah, and you keep falling back into that same dream, over and over again?”

Steve nods. “Something like that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Danny asks as he sits on the foot of the bed, slowly, carefully. Steve can’t tell if it’s because Danny’s just being careful not to jostle him because of earlier, or because he thinks he might get spooked or startled if he moves too quickly.

“No,” he grunts. He doesn’t. He knows it’s just the fever messing with his head and he’s a veteran of nightmares. He knows how to deal with them, and these aren’t new. They’re just a highlight reel his mind’s playing because he’s exhausted and off balance with this damn radiation thing.

“How’re you feeling, then? Your stomach, I mean.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I dunno. I don’t know if I'm starving or if I’m still gonna puke. I mean... Everything I’ve eaten in the last four days I’ve thrown up. I’m _fucking exhausted,_ Danny. I just...” He doesn’t know what more to say and he shivers hard, hit with another round of chills. He can’t keep his teeth from chattering. “I-I j..jusstt... w-want-t... to f-feel... b-bett-tter...” he stutters through the shaking.

“You haven’t—F… Four days? You haven’t kept anything down in four days and you haven’t been to the hospital?” Danny almost yells. “You… you jump onto a _truck when y_ —What the hell is the matter with you?”

He winces, the volume of Danny’s voice ratcheting up his headache. “Don’t shout. I _d-did_ go see my d-doctor. How do you t-think I f-f-found out about the radiation poisoning?”

Danny shakes his head and sighs, clucking his tongue. Without warning or any consideration for Steve’s personal space, he leans over and plasters his hand on Steve’s forehead.

Steve wants to be annoyed. He wants to feel like Danny’s overstepping. He’s not a _child_. 

“Go shower. It’ll help with the fever,” Danny orders, because yeah, the tone leaves no room for arguing. It’s the exact same tone his dad used, when he was ten and somehow, _again,_ it does something complicated to Steve’s heart.

“Go. Warm water. Not hot, kay?” Danny orders.

“Okay. Okay,” he caves.

Danny’s right. The shower feels good. The water sluices off the layers of sweat and sickness off his skin and he lets the tepid water run over his back for long minutes, way past his usual three. He stays standing under the spray, hands braced against the tile, head bowed, till he feels woozy from standing.

 

TBC........


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop. Just. Stop. When any one of us is in trouble, what happens? You’re there. You? You move the world, you do whatever, you help. You’d known me for, what two seconds? You buy me a weekend at the Kahala hotel with Grace so she can see the dolphins instead of my crappy apartment. You grab Chin out of his lame ass job just because you decide he’s a good guy, you… You let Jerry move into your house because he was scared of, essentially, the Boogieman. Nahele. He stole your car, you find him a job, don’t act so surprised when we do the same for you, kay? Even in the middle of the night. Okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. More Steve whump and more Danny being the fatherlike caretaker.
> 
> I know how I plan on ending this story but I'm not there yet. Soon though.  
> Maybe this can hold us till the new season in a couple days!
> 
> I'm still in a rough place so feedback is welcomed. As usual My goto is sick!Steve. This fic and my other WIP have points in common, so maybe it can get confusing. I'm sorry if it is.

* * *

 

He startles a bit when the water suddenly shuts off and when he opens his eyes, he catches a hand just disappearing out of the shower.

“C’mon out of there before you pass out. I’m holding the towel and my eyes are closed. I don’t wanna see the family jewels, McGarrett,” Danny instructs from the other side of the glass.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Keep your pants on,” Steve says as he exits the shower. He snags the towel out of Danny’s hands and wraps it around his waist. He grabs the second one off the bar and buries his face in it before sitting on the closed toilet lid, elbows on his knees.

“I have no intention of joining the naked parade, unlike you, who seems to like walking around in nothing but skin.”

Steve doesn’t bother answering. He’s too tired. Danny was right; the shower did him a world of good but now, he’s way past exhausted. Drying himself off feels like a herculean effort. Hell, he’d sleep right where he is, sitting up if he could.

“Hey, don’t go falling asleep sitting there.”

It’s like Danny’s reading his mind.

“Just… tired.”

“Yeah, I know,” Danny says, grabbing the dark blue towel in his hands and tugging it gently till Steve lets it go.

Danny rubs it over his hair, his back and his arms.

“Hey.”

Steve opens his eyes and looks up, finding Danny holding a clean t-shirt and pair of sleep pants for him to take.

“Get those on, and I’ll help you get back to bed.”

Steve nods but doesn’t move, swallows and closes his eyes. His stomach _hurts_. It aches with hunger, but it burns with acid and re-burgeoning nausea. He lets his head fall forward, opens his eyes and stares at the floor between his feet, hoping it’ll help with the vertigo he’s starting to feel; it’s like the whole room is tilting to the left in a slow spin, making his head swim.

The queasiness solidifies and he breathes out a slow, deliberate breath out his mouth, inhaling through his nose, swallowing thickly the saliva that’s starting to pool under his tongue.

“Steve?”

He exhales, slow and careful. “Feel sick,” he whispers on the last bit of air, inhales through his nose, deliberate, so, so careful. He does _not_ want to throw up again. There’s nothing _in him_ to throw up. He coughs, the back of his throat thick with queasy spit.

“Okay. You wanna maybe drink a little water, see it that helps?”

Instead of replying, he lets his body slide forward, off the toilet and onto the plush bathmat. He twists his body till he’s kneeling sideways in front of the toilet. He blindly shoves the lid up before draping his arms over the seat, resting his head against them, mouth over the water, ready for what he’s pretty sure is inevitable.

“Dammit,” he hears Danny swear quietly and the water running in the sink.

He keeps his eyes closed as he pants harshly now, the nausea cresting.

Saliva drips into the toilet as Danny puts a cold washcloth on his neck.

His stomach gurgles and he retches weakly, nothing coming from it save some more pain. The scorching burn in his throat makes him cough again, which starts the whole cycle over.

He doesn’t have the strength to fight anymore so he just… lets it happen, lets the retches, belches and gags roll through him, thin dribbles of acid-laced mucus and bile dripping into the toilet when he’s managed to strain hard or long enough. He doesn’t even try and hold in the pained groans, whimpers and breathless gasps of effort, or pretend the tears leaking from his eyes are just from the strain and not from exhaustion, pain or frustration.

He’s done. Done in.

Danny drapes the towel over his back when he shivers despite the sweat he’s again drenched in, rubs his back, murmurs things in languages he doesn’t know, trying to bring some comfort into what Steve feels is one of his most dehumanizing moments. He never expected anyone to see him like this, huddled on the floor, too sick and weak to even move, a slave to his body’s own torture.

When it stops, he just stays there, trying to breathe and not just crumple to the floor, when Danny’s gentle hand lifts his head up, wipes his chin, mouth, his entire face.

“Shit babe… Okay, Enough of this.”

“M’ sorry,” he mumbles, because Danny sounds pissed. Fed up. Angry.

“No. No, no, no. Babe. Don’t. I’m not mad at you. Just at the situation. Seeing you like this is killing me. Don’t be sorry. Not your fault. Okay? Let’s just get you to bed.”

He musters enough coordination to get into the clean clothes Danny brought him, but he can’t stand on his own and there’s more stumbling then actual walking, and most of his weight is on Danny. He drops heavily onto his bed, letting himself fall to his side. Danny lifts his legs onto the mattress and drapes the covers over him.

He lies there, just breathing, trying to ignore the awful burning pain in his throat and stomach. He’s still shivering hard and despite his teeth biting down hard on the inside of his bottom lip, little moans and grunts escape him.

The ache spreads down his bones, into his joints and there’s suddenly a warm hand on his back, caressing gently, up and down, up and down, as he curls into a ball, clutching a pillow to his chest.

Danny’s voice washes over him but he can’t catch the words. They break and dissolve like waves soaking into the sand on his backyard beach; no matter how much he wants to, he can’t hold on to them. His brain is too tired, too overwhelmed by his miserable state to focus on anything outside his body.

Pain pulses through his head, like it wants to explode and implode all at once. Everything spins and his stomach turns and surges. A gurgling groan escapes him as he tries to push the pillow out of the way of the scorching acids flooding up his throat.

His hand clutches at the edge of the mattress and he lurches to the side of the bed, letting his head hang over the floor. He feels Danny’s hands on his shoulders, holding him up as sour, viscid bile gushes from his mouth unheeded, onto the hardwood floor.

He chokes and coughs, eyes screwed shut. He draws in a shuddering, gasping breath, and another, and another, noises of pain and misery impossible to hold in.

Danny’s hands and arms hold him and stroke his back, his arms, his sweaty forehead, comforting, reassuring, calming.

Blood rushes in his ears, pounds through his head and he swears he can taste it through the bile coating his mouth.

He loses the thread again for a while, till there’s an insistent hand shaking his shoulder.

He forces his eyes open and Danny’s right there in front of him, crouched by his bedside.

“Babe. I have Noelani here. She’s coming up to see you okay?”

“N.. No. I don’t…”

“Yeah, you do. You need some help, babe.”

“Don’t… be… bother… S’ late.”

“Stop. Just. Stop.  When any one of us is in trouble, what happens? You’re there. You? You move the world, you do whatever, you help. You’d known me for, what two seconds? You buy me a weekend at the Kahala hotel with Grace so she can see the dolphins instead of my crappy apartment. You grab Chin out of his lame ass job just because you decide he’s a good guy, you… You let Jerry move into your house because he was scared of, essentially, the Boogieman. Nahele. He stole your car, you find him a job, don’t act so surprised when we do the same for you, kay? Even in the middle of the night. Okay?”

“O.. okay.”

“Good. So. Noleani. She’s downstairs. She’s gonna come up, check you out, probably put in an IV for some fluids, maybe some meds so we don’t get another repeat with the puking, so maybe you can sleep good, get some real rest, all right? Huh?”

He lets his eyes slip closed, nods. Maybe in part because some relief sounds incredibly good. He just… wants to sleep. Just… sleep. Without feeling so sick he can’t imagine feeling better ever again.

There are voices, quiet, downstairs. Noises on the stairs. There’s a soft hand on his arm, Noelani’s quiet voice, close.

“Commander? Can you open your eyes for me?”

He does.

“Hey, Commander,” Noelani greets with her usual, infectious smile. Her eyes look kind and a bit sad though, like she’s sorry she has to be here.

“Steve,” he whispers. “Sorry… you had to come.”

“All right, Steve it is. And don’t… It’s… I’m glad I can help. Sooo… I spoke to your doctor and I had a look at your medical file. I have a couple anti-emetics, but those are IV, so I’m gonna have to put in a large bore IV catheter, okay?”

He nods.

“I’m gonna run in some fluids for the dehydration as well. That all right?” she asks, as she lays her fingers on his wrist, taking his pulse.

He closes his eyes back up and nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“Okay. Even if you’re dehydrated, you’ve got good veins. Sorry, it’s gonna pinch a bit… Okay. IV’s in. Won’t be too long before you feel some relief,” Noelani says quietly, kindly.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, feeling the coolness of the fluids rushing up his veins. His stomach gives a hard twist and he swallows against the surge at the back of his throat, a small grunt of pain escaping his throat despite his best efforts.

“Shhh. You’re okay.”

It’s Danny’s voice. Danny’s voice, coming from just behind him, where he can feel a gentle hand rubbing his neck, his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Ease up, babe, relax. Let the tension go. Breathe. Slow and easy.”

He swallows hard again, holds his breath for a beat and exhales, slowly.

Gradually, the cramps and nausea ease as the minutes tick by. His already exhausted body feels heavier and heavier and he sighs with the weight of fatigue.

“Sleep. I’ll be here if you need, babe. Just rest. Rest. It’s okay.”

He lets himself sink into the depths of slumber, praying Danny’s presence is enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and Happy Premiere !

**Author's Note:**

> So? How am I doing? 
> 
> I may post a couple other WIPs in the coming days... who knows!


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